


Fortunate Son

by chemm80



Series: Fortunate Son [1]
Category: Sons of Anarchy, Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-10
Updated: 2009-05-10
Packaged: 2017-11-01 17:13:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/359296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chemm80/pseuds/chemm80
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John sends Sam and Dean to Charming to investigate the possible resurrection of a serial killer.  Everything points to the Sons, and Jax Teller holds the key to everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fortunate Son

_We came to realize that when you move your life off the social grid, you give up the safety that society provides. On the fringe, blood and bullets are the rule of law and if you’re a man with convictions, violence is inevitable._ — John Thomas Teller

 

When the text came through, they were sitting in a truck stop somewhere east of Omaha, about a day’s drive west of Burkittsville. They’d just gotten in the car and driven, no particular destination in mind, both of them more than ready to be quit of the perfect little town. 

Sam was trying not to look at the pool of slimy yellow congealing on Dean’s plate. Damned runny eggs turned Sam’s stomach every time. It didn’t help when Dean swiped a sausage link through the mess and shoved the whole thing into his mouth. 

“Guess we’re goin’ to California,” Dean said, when he’d (mostly) finished chewing. 

Dean didn’t look at Sam when he made the announcement, and his tone was carefully neutral, like he was expecting Sam to freak out, lose his shit because it was California. It was true he hadn’t been back there since…well, since this all started, but he’d fully intended to go there hunting for Dad. He could damn sure handle it. Or maybe California wasn’t the issue, and Dean was just expecting Sam to balk at chasing another of Dad’s random, cryptic dispatches. 

Whatever Dean’s concern, Sam really didn’t have any interest in rehashing the same stupid argument. He still didn’t agree with following every inscrutable order their dad issued—not by a long shot—but beating that particular expired equine wasn’t worth screwing with the connection they’d managed to re-establish since Dean’s brush with the orchard god. Funny how a near-death experience brings people together, Sam thought darkly.

“Yeah,” Sam said, pulling his mind back to the case and looking up the town’s name on his laptop. “Charming, California. Population 14,679. There’s not much here.”

“Shocking,” Dean said, finishing off his coffee. “Although that actually could make it easier to figure out what’s going on.” 

“Right,” Sam grunted. “Because ‘straight to the point’ is how we roll, right?”

Dean snorted. “Afraid of a little challenge, college boy?” He didn’t wait for an answer, just threw his balled-up napkin on the table and asked, “How far?”

“Fifteen hundred miles, give or take,” Sam said, with a sigh. 

“Guess we’d better get goin’ then,” Dean said with a crooked smile. He stood up and dropped some cash on the table. In spite of his taunts, he looked about as enthusiastic as Sam felt.

****

It’s a straight shot down Interstate 80 from the paralyzing monotony of Iowa and Nebraska to the mountains of the Sierra Nevada range, shouldered up against the California-Nevada border. There’s not a lot of traffic, cops are a pretty rare sight and they’re making good time, but it’s still a long-ass way. 

They drive straight through, sleeping in shifts because people are dying. People are always dying and it’s always up to them to find out why and put a stop to it. And this time, well…in Dean’s experience, if you go digging you’re gonna turn up a lot of dirt, and Sam had unearthed some pretty nasty shit once he started looking. Three high school girls dead already, sexually assaulted and asphyxiated, not necessarily in that order. And that was just the latest round. Five more had died in Charming back in 1995 before the psycho went underground. 

Dean shifts the Impala into low to save the brakes as they start down the west face of the mountain. The change in the engine’s pitch makes Sam stir in his sleep. Dean turns to look at him and a sign catches his eye: Donner Pass Road. Dean snorts.

Sam sucks in a breath and stretches, frowning at Dean through sleep-filmed eyes. “What?” 

“Donner Pass. Fucking California. I swear, if this place is gonna fall into the ocean, I wish it’d get a move on, you know—before any more fucked-up shit happens here.”

It’s more of a speech than he really intended to make and Sam gives him an odd look. Dean sees it but pretends he didn’t. Just another little perk of being in the driver’s seat—eye contact not required or expected, always something else you need to look at. 

They cruise down into the brushy woods of the foothills. It’s warm and the thick smell of dust bakes off the hillside as they cruise a spiraling path into the Sacramento Valley. Just a hint of smoke from somewhere in the distance makes it too easy for Dean to remember the reason he yanked Sam out of California in the first place. Hard to believe it was only a few months ago. 

His lip twitches in a little smile at the thought. Little overdramatic there, aren’t you Dean? Evil shit is gonna go down in California just like everywhere else. It’s a big-ass state too; it’s not like they can just avoid it altogether, even if they wanted to.

“Yeah, well you’re right, it is fucked up; I’m just not sure it’s our special brand of fucked up,” Sam says, apparently waking up enough to pick up the thread of Dean’s previous comment.

“You said that,” Dean grunts. “A time or ten.”

“Haven’t gotten an answer, either.” Sam mutters sulkily.

Dean rolls his eyes. Here we go.

“I know Dad doesn’t think it’s the same killer as the one in ’95, or a copycat, either,” Sam continues. “I just don’t get why. Of course, it’s not like he can just come right out and fucking tell us anything.” 

“Sam…” Dean starts, than shakes his head. “You know what? We’re both tired, this is a bitch of a case and we’re back in this godforsaken…” He stops. Neither of them needs another reminder of what happened the last time they worked a job in good old Cali. 

Sam just clenches his jaw, like he’d rather bite through his tongue than give in, the stubborn jackass. Fortunately, Dean’s got his lifetime education in mule-herding to fall back on. Between Sam and his father, Dean’s a goddamned PhD in that particular discipline.

“Look, let’s just find a place to stay. You find us some leads, get a better handle on what we’re looking for while I get a couple hours sleep.” 

Dean waits, doesn’t get an answer and tries again. “You rested enough for that?” 

“Hey,” Dean says, turning to look at Sam hard, irritation bleeding into his voice.

Sam flops his head against his seatback in surrender. “Yeah,” he grunts. 

He’s being pissy, but whatever. Dean lets it go just to have the conversation over. Pouting is better than bitching. Or at least it’s quieter.

****

“’Charming’, hell. They sure missed the mark naming this town,” Dean grumbles, as another door slams in their faces. 

They turn away from the house in time to see two rough-looking guys on Harleys cruise past. The bikers both cast hard looks at Sam and Dean as they get into the Impala. 

“Looks like ‘Friendly’ doesn’t rank very high on the list of appropriate names, either,” Sam remarks dryly as he watches the two leather jackets recede. 

It doesn’t take much heat to turn the black shell of the Impala into a solar oven and the California late spring sunshine is more than up to the task. Dean rolls his window down and rests his elbow on the opening.

“Maybe it’s the ‘reporter’ pretext. The real ones probably wore out our welcome before we even got here,” he says. 

“Maybe. Seems like it’s more than that, though,” Sam says, thinking out loud.

Dean sits a few more seconds, rubbing thoughtfully at his chin with one finger, then reaches for the ignition. “Too fuckin’ hot to sit here, that’s for sure. Who’s next?”

“Uh, let’s see…there’s a woman who worked near the crime scene,” Sam says, thumbing through the pile of notes on his lap. 

“’Crime scene.’ That’s another thing—forget about the way the EMF reading is off the charts over there now—what the hell are these girls doing up at the high school alone at night?” Dean says, frowning.

Sam shakes his head, then slides a paper out of the sheaf on his lap and reads. “The witness’ name is Clea Webb. She might have seen something, during the first round of killings, anyway. She was a janitor at the school back then.”

Dean huffs out a breath. “Let’s go. She can’t be any more useless than the leads we’ve already checked.”

****

Clea Webb’s house is small and old, hunched under a clump of oaks at the edge of a city park. The woman herself is small and old as well, face shriveled and folding in on itself like a withered apple, and she eyes them curiously through the glass of the storm door as they introduce themselves.

“Reporters, huh? Well, I can’t tell you much that everyone doesn’t already know, but you’re welcome to come in if you like.” She opens the door and turns her back, tottering into the living room. “Just don’t let the cat out,” she finishes, and Sam twists his body awkwardly looking for it, shutting the door quickly behind him and half-expecting to smash the hapless animal in mid flight. Then he looks down and sees the cat lying in a spot of sunshine, not moving a muscle other than to open its eyes a slit when Dean steps over it. Dean throws Sam a smirk over his shoulder.

The old lady flops in a threadbare armchair with a groan. Sam tries not to wrinkle his nose at the distinctly feline odor that wafts up from the sofa when they sit. Dean swallows audibly and Sam starts talking to cover any gagging noises that might be forthcoming. 

“We won’t take up much of your time, ma’am. The murders at the school—did you see anyone?” 

“Not these last ones, but back in ’95, yeah.” 

Her eyes are a faded blue behind her smudged glasses and slightly cloudy with cataracts, but her expression makes Sam think her wits are still plenty sharp.

“You saw the killer? Do you know who it was?” Sam asks.

“Of course. Everyone knew.”

“But the police never arrested anybody…”

“Edgar Hardeman was the son of a city councilman, big name family around here from way back.”

Sam frowns, feels Dean lean forward beside him. 

“Really? You know that for sure?”

“Everyone knew. I told the police it was him right after the first murder. He worked at the school, some make-work job his daddy got him. Could have arrested him then. Before he disappeared.”

Sam’s at a loss. He wasn’t expecting anything nearly this detailed, or this forthright either, considering the brick wall they’d been running up against all day.

Dean picks up the thread. “So let me get this straight…the whole town knew who the killer was and they just let him walk?”

“I didn’t say that,” Clea says, pausing. 

Sam can feel Dean tensing, his irritation boiling up and ready to spill over, and he gives him a quick warning glance.

“What are you saying, Ms. Webb?” Sam asks quietly 

She looks at the floor for a moment, then back up at Sam and Dean. “Boys—around here when people want justice, they don’t go to the police.”

Dean jacks his eyebrows up and dips his head in a gesture that lays a pretty clear “Well?” out on the table. 

“They look to Sam Crow.”

**

“Sam, I’m telling you, that old lady was batshit,” Dean says as he unlocks the door to their room. 

“She seemed pretty sane to me.”

“Yeah, right up to the part where she started talking about birds or whatever. Sam Crow? Seriously?”

They’d tried to get her to explain, of course, but she wouldn’t say more. In fact, she’d shooed them out of her house pretty quickly after her strange announcement.

“Just give me a minute, Dean,” Sam says, sitting down and starting up the laptop. “I could swear I’ve heard that name before…”

“Yeah, me too. I’m pretty sure it was in a Bugs Bunny cartoon,” Dean mutters, flopping down on the bed with a sigh.

Sam clicks and reads for a couple of minutes, then lets out a soft snort. “Got ‘em,” he says triumphantly.

“Sam Crow. It’s an acronym: S-A-M-C-R-O. Stands for ‘Sons of Anarchy Motorcycle Club, Redwood Original’. I should have figured it out before.”

“It’s a biker club?” Dean asks.

“Yeah, and not just any bunch of Easy Rider wannabes, either. They’re one-percenters. The Sons of Anarchy are outlaws.”

Sam flips the laptop around so Dean can see the screen. He’s pulled up a picture of three or four club members, taken at some sort of fundraiser a couple of months before. They’re hard-looking guys, scruffy and heavily inked, all wearing leather vests with a picture of a Grim Reaper on the back, “Sons of Anarchy MC, California” lettered above and below.

Dean grunts. “What does that mean exactly, ‘outlaw’? We talking about a bunch of pussies tooling around on weekends without their brain buckets? Or are we thinkin’ serious vigilantes?”

“I heard rumors about the Sons when I was at Stanford—gun running, intimidation of federal witnesses, hijacking.

“Offing suspected serial killers?”

Sam tips his head in a half-shrug. “Could be. In all the stories, there was a definite consensus on one thing.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“These guys don’t fuck around.”

****

It’s early yet to think about staking out the school, so they’re killing time at a bar and grill named The Water Hole. The place is doing a fair business, with mostly happy hour types at first. After a disc jockey shows up, a younger crowd starts to filter in. The whiny voice droning from the sound system advises them to move along—like they know they do—but Dean’s not going anywhere until he gets some food in his stomach. 

Their order is delivered by a waitress named “Tandy,” according to her nametag. She’s already registered on the higher end of Dean’s scale of hot, her main attraction being the gorgeous legs that go on for miles before disappearing under her short skirt, and which Dean’s been idly picturing wrapped around his waist. From the scorching looks she’s been shooting him since they walked in, he’s pretty sure she’s on the same page.

Dean’s only on his third mouthful of his pretty passable burger when Sam starts picking at his plate and voicing his obligatory complaint about the grease. Dean doesn’t think the food is nearly as bad as the emo music, but Sam’s going on about premature heart disease. He’s just getting to the part where he swears a heart attack is going to kill Dean before anything evil has a chance when Dean interrupts him with a nudge of his foot and a nod toward the door.

There’s a guy walking in the door, moving with an oddly rolling swagger that should be off-putting, but manages to look natural rather than cocky. He’s in his late twenties with longish blond hair, and he’s been standing pretty far back from his razor for a while. He’s wearing baggy jeans, a dark t-shirt under a leather vest covered over with patches, and plain white sneakers. Dean can’t read the lettering, but from here it looks a lot like the picture Sam showed him earlier. There’s a big knife hanging off the guy’s belt and he’s not trying to hide it, even though he’s got the attention of pretty much everyone in the bar. 

He glad-hands his way down the row of barstools, smiling and friendly, clapping the odd man on the shoulder and speaking here and there, until he slides onto a stool at the end. He sits facing the door. He could pass for a politician if it weren’t for the way he’s dressed. Well, that…and the fact that people actually seem to like him. 

“Gotta be one of the Sons of the Crows, or whatever,” Dean says quietly. 

“Looks like,” Sam answers.

They watch him without saying anything for a bit, watching the people who speak to him just as closely, how they act around him. There’s no shortage of them, either; they’re crowding up around him like they’re lining up for a formal audience with him or something.

“Popular fucker,” Dean mutters dryly. 

“Yeah,” Sam says. Dean waits for him to go on, then he takes a second look at his brother and sees the familiar closed-off expression. Dean leans back and tends to his beer, lets Sam’s obscure thought process run its course without interruption. His mind wanders back to the waitress and he jerks a little when Sam speaks again.

“They’re not afraid of him,” Sam says thoughtfully, almost to himself. 

Dean glances over, sees the biker clap a hand down on the shoulder of a man at least fifteen years his senior, an almost pathetic look of gratitude on the older man’s face. 

“No,” Dean agrees. “Respect, maybe?”

“Like peasants seeking audience with a king,” Sam says. Not the words he would have picked, but it’s so similar to Dean’s thoughts earlier that he lets out a quiet snort of surprise.

Tandy passes near their table and Dean motions her over. 

“Another round, boys?” she asks, smiling briefly at Sam before turning her gaze full on Dean.

“Sure,” Dean says, in unison with Sam’s “No, thanks,” and Dean rolls his eyes and just keeps talking. He doesn’t look at Sam, but he registers Sam’s change of expression from bitchy to listening as he asks, nodding toward the bar. “Hey…you know that guy?”

She turns her head and her look warms as she focuses. “Sure. That’s Jax.” 

Huh, Dean thinks. It’s apparent from her eyes when she looks at him—there’s some history there.

“Jax?” he asks, letting a confused look crease his eyebrows. He’d like to make fun of the name but if he’s reading the situation right, that won’t get him the information he wants. Sure as hell won’t get him laid. 

She laughs, leaning over to speak so they can hear each other better, and so Dean can see down the open neckline of her shirt, of course. He lets her see him look and then meets her eyes with a slightly dirty grin, which she returns while answering his question.

“Jackson Teller. Everybody knows him.”

“Yeah? He somebody special?” Dean asks with a grin.

She tips her head to one side and then the other. “Yeah, kind of. Mostly it’s the Sons. He’s VP. And his Dad was one of the founding members.”

“Sons?” Dean asks, playing dumb. 

“Sons of Anarchy—they…” the bartender’s urgently motioning to her and she stops there. “Sorry, gotta go. Be back shortly to see if you need anything else,” she says, with a flirty smile.

Dean’s occupied with watching the swing of her very respectable ass as she leaves, and he doesn’t really register Jax’ presence until he’s standing a couple of yards from their table. Sam’s eyeing him warily, though. 

“Jax Teller,” he says without preamble. “Don’t think I’ve seen you boys around here before.”

“Uh, yeah, just got in last night,” Sam says, with a brightly innocent look.

If Jax notices they didn’t offer their names he doesn’t show it, just gives Sam a small smile and motions inquiringly to the empty chair in front of him. Dean waves him an invitation to sit and he does.

“Charming’s not exactly a big tourist destination. What brings you here?”

Dean thinks a minute, but it’s too late to change their story. The town’s too small and contradicting identities would blow their cover in a heartbeat. 

“We’re reporters, looking into the killings,” he finally answers.

Jax’ smile changes subtly, gets a sharp edge to it that makes Dean’s shoulder blades draw together with sudden tension. He doesn’t like that grin, not at all.

“Is that right?” Jax asks, blue eyes going steely. “Got anything so far?”

“Not really,” Sam says, all earnest disappointment. He leans forward, brow wrinkling, and says, “People in town don’t seem to want to talk to us for some reason.”

Jax drops the smile and looks Sam in the eye for a long moment. “Maybe they just don’t like reporters,” he says. He waits a beat, then adds, “Or liars.” 

Shit. Dean searches his brain for a way out. Whipping out the “you got us—we’re really undercover cops/feds” card probably wouldn’t be a smart move, considering what they already know about the Sons of Anarchy. If he could come up with one of the victim’s names…

Sam sighs and looks down at the table. “Okay, man. You’re right. We’re not really reporters.”

“Really,” Jax says, stretching the word sarcastically. 

Sam gets an “aw shucks” sheepish look and says, “It’s…Shelley Paxton,” Sam says, giving the name of one of the murder victims. He pauses, like he’s overwhelmed with emotion. “She was a friend of mine. I lost track of her after I left school, but...”

“What school?” Jax asks flatly, unconvinced.

“Stanford,” Sam replies, staring Jax down like he’s daring him to call him a liar again. Even Dean’s a little thrown by the sudden dead coldness in Sam’s eyes.

Jax’ stare softens some then, though Dean’s not sure if it’s because he actually believes what Sam’s saying or if he’s just decided not to engage in the fight Sam’s obviously offering him. Or not right now anyway.

“Okay, so Shelley was your friend. I get it. I’ve lost people I know to this son of a bitch, myself. What do you guys think you can do about it?” Jax asks.

“I don’t know,” Sam says, shaking his head and letting his voice rise a little. “But the cops are just sitting around with their thumbs up their asses and I can’t…I have to do something,” he finishes, throwing his hands up at his sides in a helpless gesture.

Jax clenches his jaw, looks at Dean and then back to Sam. “Something’s getting done,” he says. “This shit doesn’t happen in my…in Charming.” 

He stands up to leave, then leans down with both hands on the table. “Just stay out of my way,” he says, stalking off and out the door.

Sam watches him leave, then turns back to Dean, exhaling noisily with the release of tension. 

“What do you think?” Sam asks him.

Dean considers what he saw of the biker, the alert way he carried himself, how he carefully positioned his body so he could keep an eye on the door and the room at the same time. 

“I think you were right before. He’s not fucking around.”

“He’d make a better ally than enemy,” Sam says, nodding in agreement. “And the way he was talking about the town…very possessive…patriarchal, you know?”

Dean raises his eyebrows at the term. “Okay, once more—in English, please.”

Sam meets Dean’s eye for a second, then says, “Did you hear him? He almost called it ‘my town’. Sam glances toward the exit, then back at Dean.

“Dean, that guy knows where all the bodies are buried.”

 

****

Chapter 2

 _The older I get, the more I realize that age doesn’t bring wisdom; it only brings ‘weary.’ Self-awareness doesn’t reveal my indiscretions…exhaustion does._ — John Thomas Teller

 

The Impala’s parked under the thick overhang of some trees just down the street from Charming High School. The campus is host to an odd mix of old and new buildings, patched together and added onto over the years. Sam thinks it says a lot about the town that there’s no security fencing, just a low rock wall that runs completely around all but the newest of the buildings. 

They followed Jackson Teller’s Harley here from the Water Hole about an hour ago, Sam figures, but he doesn’t turn on a light to check. There’s not much ambient light for sure, but Teller is pretty easy to locate from the glowing end of his cigarette. He’s done nothing but sit on the steps of the main building and smoke, and his posture is so frankly meditative that Sam feels like they’re intruding on something private. 

“What time is it?” Dean asks, keeping his voice low to avoid it carrying through the open car window. Then he rolls his head around and his neck makes a grinding pop so loud that Sam’s surprised the guy doesn’t hear it from across the street. 

“Why? You got a date?” Sam asks, brain on automatic. It’s just something he says, but Dean answers like it was a real question.

“I wish. Be better than sitting here watching this guy give himself lung cancer, the broody fucker. What’s he doing here, anyway?”

“How the hell should I know?” Sam snaps, not exactly sure why he’s so irritated. It’s not like Dean complaining is anything new. Maybe Sam’s just tired, or not used to the heat. It’s cooling off outside now that the sun’s down, but he’s still not ready to put his jacket on. His skin feels dirty and itchy from the unaccustomed sweating. 

Dean tosses him a quick frown, then looks back through the windshield. The pause that follows is heavy and Dean’s obviously got something to say, so Sam finally asks.

“What?” Sam nearly spits the word.

“Look…” Dean starts, then clears his throat. “If you’re, you know…having a problem with being here, so close to…” he trails off, making a hand motion that’s ridiculously vague, could mean anything. Unfortunately, Sam knows what Dean’s getting at. It’s not exactly news to Sam that they’re less than a hundred miles from Palo Alto.

The thing that makes Sam wonder if he’s hearing right is that Dean seems to be trying to get him to talk about his feelings, and since he’s pretty sure that’s one of the seven signs of the apocalypse, he figures they’d best get this over with right now.

“Close to what? Stanford?” Sam says, not looking at Dean.

“Well…yeah,” Dean mumbles.

Sam rubs his eyes and sighs. “So what, Dean? Are you worried about some kind of PTSD thing? Do you think I’m gonna have a meltdown or something, just because we’re here?

“I didn’t say that. It’s just…back at the bar it seemed like you were kind of…”

There’s a yell and a dull thud from Teller’s vicinity. Dean grabs his shotgun, vaults from the car and takes off running. Sam’s right behind him as they hurdle the wall and skid to a stop near the steps. 

“Where the hell is he?” Dean mutters. They’re both straining to see. Sam hears Teller gasping for air then, finally spots him getting up off the ground in the building’s shadow. 

He seems to recognize Sam and Dean. “What are you…” he starts, but it ends in a grunt as something thumps him back hard against the wall. He’s staring off to Sam’s right and Sam turns to look. There’s a figure standing there, looks like a man in his late twenties. 

“You,” Jax whispers fiercely, then launches himself off the wall. He connects with something at least marginally solid; Sam can hear the impact. They grapple for a few long seconds. Dean’s looking for a clear shot with the salt gun. Teller starts wheezing like he’s being choked. Sam closes on the two figures and tries to sort them out, reaching, grabbing and dodging. Dean yells something Sam doesn’t catch, then wades into the melee himself. 

Sam takes a hard shove to the chest that sends him staggering back. He overbalances and crashes hard into some sort of spiky bushes. He flails and swears, branches snapping and scratching at him. The clutching shrubbery isn’t substantial enough to use as a handhold and it takes him too long to find his footing. 

He finally works his way out of the brush and spots Dean, backed off a few yards and aiming the shotgun. 

“Get him down, Sam!” Dean bellows.

Sam’s not sure how solid this ghost is, but he seems to have a pretty good hold on Teller. Sam takes a running start and hits them with a flying tackle, bearing the whole struggling mass to the ground under his weight. Sam wraps his arms around whatever he can get his hands on—man, ghost, or both—and holds on. He hunches over, keeping his head as low as he can, protecting his face. The shotgun booms and Sam feels the salt pellets blow past his shoulders.

Everything goes still for a few seconds and Sam shakes his head to clear it. He looks up at Dean, who’s already crouched down next to them with one hand on Sam’s shoulder. Sam can’t hear him too well over the ringing in his ears, but he doesn’t need to; he just answers the question. 

“I’m fine,” Sam says.

There’s a grunt from underneath him and he looks down.

“Jesus Christ…heavy,” Teller wheezes. 

“Sorry,” Sam says. He gets up and offers him a hand up. Teller seems uninjured, if a little dazed. 

“So, you guys were…” he starts, looking around warily, then rubbing his hand across his face. When he speaks again, his tone is thoughtful, almost like he’s talking to himself. “I don’t…it’s fucking impossible.” 

“Are you all right?” Sam asks him. 

Sam can almost see the other man pull himself together then. He’s actually kind of impressed by the way Teller’s taking the whole thing, then he wonders why he’s surprised. Besides his general air of competence, the guy’s the second in command of an outlaw biker club. This can’t be the first time he’s been under the gun.

“Yeah, I guess…‘all right’ is kind of relative right now.” Teller answers, shaking his head like he’s trying to clear it. “You shot him. Is that a fucking shotgun?”

“Rock salt,” Sam says, nodding.

Teller looks even more confused, not surprisingly. He lets the subject drop, out of shock more than anything, Sam thinks. 

“Okay then. He’s gone?” he asks, looking at Dean.

“For now,” Dean says grimly. 

Teller nods absently. He manages a crooked half-smile and shakes his head. 

“I don’t know about you boys, but I could use a drink.”

****

It’s close to midnight by the time they get back to The Water Hole. Sam’s slipped another shirt on over his dirty t-shirt, but he’s pretty sure there are leaves and possibly some good-sized twigs nesting in his shorts. He’d rather be in a hot shower right now but this guy’s their best lead so far, and he’s fresh off a close encounter with a ghost, still in shock. This might be a good time for them find out what he knows.

Teller buys them a round and they sit down at a table in the corner. Sam’s thirsty enough that the first beer goes down fast and smooth. They’re working on a second when the biker clears his throat. 

“So, who…what…was that back there?” he asks, looking at Dean.

“Well, we were already pretty sure it was a ghost. The fact that the salt worked clinches it.”

“A ghost,” Teller says, setting his elbows on the table and rubbing his eyes with both hands. “Fuck, gotta be some kind of nightmare…” he mumbles.

“You know what you saw,” Dean says, fixing him with a hard look.

Teller returns it for a moment, then he nods. “It’s the ghost of the original killer then?”

“We think so,” Sam says. “The M.O. is exactly the same as back in ’95. Ghosts usually follow pretty strict rules, the same patterns over and over.”

“Which is why we’re curious,” Dean says, with an appraising look.

Teller raises his eyebrows in question, but he seems wary, like he’s weighing how much he’s willing to say.

“The victims have all been teenage girls, before tonight. Why did it go after you?” Dean pauses. “Somethin’ you’re not telling us?”

Teller doesn’t answer the question, just replies with another. 

“Where do you two fit into all this?” Teller asks. The corner of his mouth is turned up in what could be a smile, but the look in his eyes is cold. Sam feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. 

“It’s what we do,” Dean says, clearly beginning to run out of patience. “Look, we don’t have time for this…”

“You hunt ghosts,” the biker says, his tone aggressive enough to make Dean’s eyes narrow. “Because the first time I met you, you said were reporters, then it was hero college boys…”

This is getting out of hand. Sam leans forward with one elbow on the table, facing Teller and turning his right shoulder toward Dean as a barrier between them.

“Yes, we hunt ghosts, among other things. I’ll tell you later if you really want to know, but what’s important right now is stopping these killings.” 

Sam pauses. “Right?” he prompts, watching the other man closely.

Teller rubs his hand across his mouth. He looks at Sam when he asks, “You think you can do that?”

“Yes, I do,” Sam says earnestly. “But we need to know where the body is, the original killer’s remains.”

Jax pulls a disgusted face. “What? Why?”

Dean sighs and rolls his eyes. Sam warns him off with an irritated glance and a raised hand.

“Spirits are attached to their remains; that’s probably what’s holding it here. We need to salt and burn the bones,” Sam says, watching Teller. “But we have to find them first,” he adds quietly. 

Teller sits thoughtfully for a few moments, then sighs and spreads both hands in a gesture of surrender. 

“I must be losing my fucking mind, but I believe you. I’ll help if I can.”

Sam’s still sure the guy knows more than he’s saying—for one thing he recognized the ghost—but he’s not about to call him a liar to his face just when they’re starting to make some progress. He just nods and sits back like he’s satisfied with that. Sam knows Dean’s not fooled either, but he relaxes too. 

“We may take you up on that, Teller,” Dean says.

“It’s Jax.”

“All right, Jax.” Dean signals the leggy blond waitress, then lays both hands flat on the table and pushes his chair back. 

“Guys this has been fun, but if the shooting part of the festivities is over, I have some other business to take care of.” 

Sam rolls his eyes and sighs. When the waitress comes over, Jax orders another round and Dean gets up and follows her back to the bar, says something in her ear that makes her laugh. Sam watches Dean flirt out of the corner of his eye, and he’s already pondering logistics for the night. One of them is probably going to be sleeping somewhere other than their room, and Sam tries to envision some scenario in which it isn’t him. He’s not having much luck.

“So, Stanford…was that just bullshit, or did you actually go there?” Jax asks, startling Sam a little.

“No, I was really there,” Sam says, but it doesn’t feel true anymore. Just six months and that life is already starting to seem like a dream. He changes the subject. “What about you?”

“Nah, didn’t need college. I’m a mechanic. The family business,” Jax says, with a small smile.

Sam huffs a laugh. 

“Somethin’ funny?” Jax asks and Sam just shakes his head. Jax waits a couple of beats, then asks, “What were you studying?”

“Pre-law,” Sam answers.

It’s Jax’s turn to laugh then, and Sam raises his eyebrows. 

“How the hell do you go from Stanford law to ghost-hunting?” Jax asks.

Sam snorts softly. “Family business.”

Dean comes back, leans both hands on the table.

“Looks like Tandy’s getting off early,” he says with a smirk. Sam rolls his eyes at the double entendre and Dean just grins wider. 

Sam sighs heavily. “Come on, Dean. I’m tired…can’t you just…”

“No, Sam I can’t ‘just.’ She’s got a roommate.” Dean looks back over his shoulder at the lady in question, throws her a smile and a cocky nod, then turns back to Sam. “I’ll even leave you the car,” Dean says, tossing him the keys. Sam doesn’t have time to be surprised before the subtle jerk of Dean’s head toward Jax tips him off. Dean wants Sam to tail him. 

“Just don’t come back for a few hours,” Dean adds.

Sam eyes Dean from under his brow. “Fine,” he says, sighing. 

“Thanks, Sammy. I owe you one,” Dean says, turning to go.

“You owe me a lot more than one,” Sam mutters at Dean’s retreating back.

Jax chugs the last of his beer. “Think I’ll get out of here, too. It’s been a long, strange day.”

Sam nods. He pulls a scrap of paper out of his wallet and writes down his cell number. “If you think of anything else, give me a call. We can stop this thing, Jax,” Sam says, with the most sincere look he can muster. 

“This town…” Jax shakes his head, turns his face away for a minute. Then he looks back at Sam and says, “We’re all like family here. I don’t want to lose anybody else. I won’t.”

Sam hopes that’s a vow Jax can keep. 

****

Sam follows Jax to an auto shop a few blocks away. He finds a spot across the street where he can watch the place, a used car lot that’s full enough to lend the Impala some cover. The sign on the front of the main building reads “Teller-Morrow Auto” and Sam doesn’t doubt that car repair actually takes place there, but it looks more like a high-security compound, fenced with tall chain link all the way around. 

The gate is open now though, and Harleys come and go for the first hour or so of Sam’s watch. The afternoon heat is still hanging over the valley and Sam has his window open. He can hear faint music from inside, mostly ‘60s and ‘70s classic rock, but there’s occasionally some blues and even an Elvis tune here and there. 

Sam’s starting to get really drowsy when he notices a figure crossing the yard from the building to the darkened garage. The gait is distinctive; it’s Jax. He climbs up a ladder attached to the side of the building, quick and surefooted like he’s done it a lot. The compound is lighted, but Jax is in shadow once he gets onto the roof. Sam keeps track of him mainly by the occasional flare of a lighter. As far as he can tell the guy is just sitting up there by himself. Seems like Dean was right about the brooding thing. 

By the time another hour passes, most of the bikers have roared off into the night and Sam’s thinking it’s about time to head back. He’s dying for a shower and bed and this was a waste of time anyway. He’s pretty sure he could have found out more about Jackson Teller and the Sons of Anarchy by asking around town—in the daylight and with a cup of coffee under his belt. He presses his fingers hard against his gritty eyes. 

“See anything interesting?”

The voice comes from about a foot behind Sam’s left ear and he’s instantly awake. He manages to control his startled jump and the curse that rises up in his throat, but he can’t stop his heart from trying to pound out of his chest. He freezes, watching Jax out of the corner of his eye, trying to be ready for whatever’s coming next. It turns out to be nothing he expected.

Jax chuckles. “Relax, big man. If I thought you and your brother were the bad guys here, you’d already have a bullet in your brain.” Sam doesn’t think he’s kidding, despite the laughter.

“I was just driving around, killing time, you know…and I uh, kind of got lost…” Sam says, but it’s weak. He’s not even convincing himself here. 

“Yeah, nice try, but I can see a long way from that roof and this baby…she’s not exactly inconspicuous,” Jax says, smiling at the car in a way that reminds Sam a little of Dean. 

Sam relaxes some, but this is weird and he’s still on his guard.

“That’s what I keep telling Dean. I’ve tried to convince him to put her in storage somewhere, get something that doesn’t stand out so much, but he’s got to drive his car.”

“I don’t blame him. I’ve never seen one in this condition before. I’d show her off, too,” Jax says, eyeing the Impala appraisingly. He leans down toward Sam, bracing both hands on the driver’s door. “But hey, I didn’t come out here to bag on you about your lack of stealth.” He pauses and grins lopsidedly. “Or not just for that, anyway.”

“No?” Sam says, grimacing sheepishly.

“You don’t want to go back to your room.”

Sam’s confused. “Why do you say that?”

Jax breathes a laugh through his nose. “Because I know Tandy—real well in fact—and Dean’s gonna be busy for a while,” Jax says, grinning wryly. “Come inside. I’ll buy you a beer.”

Sam hesitates, but he figures Jax is right—it is too early to go back to the motel. Besides, this might be a good chance to get a little information, which is why he came here in the first place.

“Trust me, man,” Jax says, smirking. “What’s going on in that motel room? You don’t want to see. Your brother’s got his hands full.”

And even that little figure of speech brings images to Sam’s mind that he really doesn’t need to contemplate, much less brand onto his brain in a full color visual. 

“All right,” he says, getting out of the car and gesturing for Jax to lead the way.

The biker influence is more apparent from inside the compound, with a big Sons of Anarchy logo next to the entry door. The interior of the clubhouse looks like a lot of bars and pool halls Sam’s been in, if you discount the rack full of baseball bats just inside the front door. There’s no one else in the place, but the lingering masculine smell—sweat, beer and tobacco smoke—is familiar from the back end of half a hundred hunts and it puts Sam’s body into reflexive ramp-down. It really has been a long day. 

“Beer?” Jax asks. 

Sam accepts, sliding one hip onto a barstool. He wonders why Jax invited him in. From what he knows about these kinds of clubs this is pretty sacred ground, and outsiders aren’t usually welcomed, or even tolerated. He decides to just lay it out on the table.

“So, what am I doing here, Jax? Now that I’ve seen all this, are you gonna have to kill me?” Sam asks.

Jax laughs shortly. “I should, but I think I’ll pass. Way too tired to be bothered diggin’ a hole big enough to bury your lanky ass.”

Sam smiles slightly, watches him and waits for an answer to his real question. Jax takes another long swallow, exhaling at the end.

“It’s not every day you find out that ghosts are real, much less killing people, you know? Don’t see myself getting to sleep any time soon.”

Sam nods. 

“Sure isn’t anybody else I can talk to about this,” Jax adds, shaking his head.

“I guess not,” Sam says. 

They drink in silence for a minute or two and Sam uses the time to check out the clubhouse. Various depictions of the Grim Reaper, the Sons of Anarchy coat of arms, are everywhere. One entire wall is nearly covered with framed mug shots of various club members, Jax among them. 

Sam focuses on a lighted display next to the bar and gets up for a closer look. It’s a memorial of sorts, various pictures and news clippings, all post-Vietnam era. A headline reads “Pigs in the Streets…But the Streets Belong to the People!” 

Jax comes up behind him and Sam turns to him with a questioning look. 

“My dad and his friend Piney were in Nam together. They came home to the same thing a lot of vets did, you know, spitting protesters at the airport and all that shit. Dad didn’t talk about it much, but I guess they finally said ‘fuck it’ and formed the Sons of Anarchy in ’67.” 

Jax reaches up and rubs his finger across the bottom of the frame, wipes away a thin coating of dust. It’s the first time Sam’s really gotten a good look at the tattoo on his right forearm. It’s a depiction of an ornately decorated tombstone marked “John Teller.” Sam nods at it. 

“Your dad?”

“Yeah,” Jax says. Sam’s mouth twitches into a near smile.

“Something funny?” Jax asks.

Sam shakes his head. “No. It’s just…my dad’s name is John, too. And he’s a Vietnam vet.”

“Huh,” Jax says, noncommittal. “I guess it’s not that surprising. Common name and all.”

Sam snorts softly. “Sounds like that’s where the similarities ended. Your father embraced anarchy; mine acts like he never left the military.”

Sam turns his back on Jax and walks back to his stool and his beer. 

“That ‘family business’ you were talking about—the old man still running it?” Jax asks. 

“Oh yeah,” Sam says, nodding. “By remote control anyway,” he adds wryly.

“What branch of service was your dad in?” Jax asks.

“Marines,” Sam answers.

Jax chuckles. “Makes sense. No offense to your old man, but the Marines—they got their own special brand of crazy.” 

“Yeah. He does know how to give orders. Haven’t seen the guy in nearly four years and he’s still running my life.” 

“Four years—that’s a long time,” Jax says. 

“Yeah. It is.” 

The lost time, the things he said when he left, have never weighed on him more and Sam looks down at his lap, runs his nail along a tear in the barstool’s covering, remembering and wondering. Where the hell are you, Dad?

Jax grunts and tilts his head thoughtfully. “Personally, I like to keep my family close by, where I can keep an eye on ‘em. Safer that way,” he finishes dryly.

Sam laughs shortly, shakes his head. 

“It’s just, me and him…we never saw eye to eye, you know? On much of anything, actually, but when I said I was going to college instead of staying to work with him and Dean…” 

“The shit hit the fan,” Jax finishes.

“Yeah, that’s putting it mildly,” Sam says, with a pained grimace. 

“So what brought you back?”

Things went to hell and I fell in after them, Sam thinks.

“It’s complicated,” he says.

“Family shit always is,” Jax drawls.

“I guess so.” 

Sam picks at the damp label on his bottle for a minute or two before he looks back at Jax. Jax is staring at the opposite wall, lost in thought, and Sam looks in that direction. His gaze lands on a sign that reads, “Brains Before Bullets” against a red background. It’s a philosophy Sam can get behind, for sure.

“Man, if I had a dime for every time I’ve wished my old man was here, wondered what he’d think about something, what he’d do…” Jax’s voice is quiet, almost like he’s talking to himself, but Sam hears what he’s saying loud and clear. 

Sam clears his throat. “At least my Dad and I are speaking now, sort of.”

Jax tilts his head in a sideways nod. “It’s a start.”

Sam tips his beer back and drains the last swallow. He hadn’t realized he’d been drinking it so fast until now, but it does explain why he’s running his mouth when he should be asking the questions. He makes an effort to concentrate on why he’s really here.

“So, how long has your dad been gone?” Sam asks.

“He died in 1993, hit by a semi,” he says, and then smiles sadly, shaking his head. “He was something, man. Larger than life, you know?”

“Yeah, I’m familiar,” Sam answers wryly. 

Jax looks up at Sam and chuckles. “I bet.” 

Jax’s eyes go a little unfocused with memory. 

“I was sixteen when my dad passed. Rough age, rough time. Seemed like everybody expected me to fill his shoes, or that’s what I thought back then anyway. I just…man…it was too much, you know?” 

Sam nods, waits for him to say more, but Jax clear his throat and changes the subject. 

“So how did you find out about the murders here?”

Sam looks up, corner of his mouth quirking. 

“Dad sent us the coordinates. In a text message.”

Jax’s mouth drops open and he stares at Sam for a second or two, then he bursts out laughing and Sam joins in.

When the laughter trails off, Jax gets up for more beer. He walks around Sam on his way back to the refrigerator and stops square behind him. Sam’s immediately uncomfortable and he cranes his neck around, finds Jax looking intently at his back. Jax probes gently at Sam’s shoulderblade, pulling the material of his shirt to one side.

“Ow,” Sam says, frowning. “What is it?”

“You’re bleeding back here, or have been. Pretty well dried, but it looks there was a shitload of it.”

Sam spares a thought for Dean’s upholstery, but then he shrugs it off. Too late now. 

“Probably that stupid bush I fell into up at the school,” Sam says, trying to see.

“Should try to clean it up. I think I’ve got some stuff back here somewhere.” 

Sam starts to protest. Jax checks the wall clock, then looks back at Sam. 

“The way I figure it, you need to kill at least another hour before you go back to that motel room. I can probably even find you a clean shirt around here somewhere.” 

Sam hesitates. It’s kind of weird, but he’s got nowhere else to be at the moment and Jax is right about taking care of the wound. It’s one Winchester rule that Sam is completely on board with: don’t play around with possible infection. Sam finally figures it can’t hurt anything and follows Jax down a narrow hallway. 

Jax leads him to a room in the back. The furnishings are cheap and look like they’ve seen hard use. There’s a bed, a work desk, a microwave and a few other odds and ends. It reminds Sam of his first college dorm room, with clothes and books thrown everywhere and the odor of old socks overlying it all. 

Jax slips his leather vest off. The bikers call it a “cut,” Sam knows from his research. He also knows they treat it with a lot of respect, so he’s not surprised when Jax lays it carefully over the chair. He looks younger, more vulnerable, without all the insignia. 

The dresser mirror is bracketed nearly all the way around with photos taped to the glass and Sam stops to look. There’s a picture of two skinny kids in swim trunks at the beach. The older one looks a lot like Jax, maybe fourteen or fifteen, standing with his arm around a smaller boy. Sam glances over his shoulder at Jax, who’s gone still. Sam nods at the picture. 

“You?” Sam asks, watching him out of the corner of his eye.

“Yeah,” Jax says quietly. “That’s me and my little brother, Thomas.”

“He live around here, too?”

“Not anymore,” Jax says. “He died not long after that picture was taken.”

“Oh. Sorry.” 

Jax shakes his head and waves off the apology, turning away. Sam watches him rummage in drawers and cardboard boxes, finally making a trip to the adjoining bathroom and back before coming up with what he wants. He looks at Sam expectantly and Sam feels awkward, not sure what Jax is waiting for. 

“You’re gonna have to take your shirt off if you want me to look at that,” Jax says, eyebrows raised and tone of his voice rising at the end, like he’s wondering if Sam is a little slow. 

At this point, Sam’s not completely sure he wants Jax to look at any part of him at all, but he either has to take his shirt off now or stand there acting like he’s afraid to. That’s even more awkward, so he pulls his t-shirt over his head, hissing a little when it pulls away from where it’s stuck to his skin. Jax sets the stuff in his hands down on the bed and peers at Sam’s shoulder. 

“Sit down so I can see,” Jax says, and he mutters something under his breath that sounds like, “Jesus Christ…thought Opie was big,” which makes no sense to Sam at all, but he doesn’t ask, just sits down on the corner of the bed. Jax fusses around for a minute or two, then starts cleaning the spot with something cold, peroxide maybe, because it doesn’t sting like Sam knows alcohol definitely does. Jax swipes at the cut, not overly rough in his movements, but efficient, getting the job done. It’s pretty much how Dean does it, in fact, and the thought makes him feel weird for a minute, like he’s doing something wrong, but he can’t figure why he should think so.

Sam feels vulnerable, way out of proportion to just having his shirt off. It’s more like being completely naked somehow. Then it occurs to him that he’s told this near stranger more about himself and his life—his family—than he’s done with anyone for…well, ever really. The thought makes his neck prickle, but he sits as still as he can, tells himself that this really does need to be done. 

“Aw, man, this is nothing,” Jax says after a minute or two. “All that dried blood made it look a lot worse than it is.” 

He smears something on the cut; it feels greasy. The spot is sore to the touch of his fingers, but Sam’s sure he’s had worse.

“And you’ve had worse,” Jax says, startling Sam with the coincidence and the realization that Jax’s voice has gone oddly husky, and Sam really feels awkward now. He wonders if he should stand up or what, and then he feels it. Jax runs a finger across Sam’s shoulder, follows the straight scar that runs down it and across his right deltoid, souvenir of a knife fight when he was sixteen. 

It’s weird, surreal, and Sam thinks he should probably get up, move away, do something, but he freezes instead. It’s been months since anyone touched him like this, with intent, and there’s no use lying to himself—it feels shockingly good. He waits, and Jax trails his hand down his back, fits the tips of three fingers into the round marks just above Sam’s left hip, puncture scars left behind by the tips of a harpy’s claw.

Sam’s breathing faster now, eyes closed, focused on the feel of callused skin against his back. Jax slides his hand upward and a rough edge of nail drags and catches. Sam gives a full body shudder. Jax sucks in a breath and replaces his hand with his mouth, tracing a wet and cooling trail across Sam’s skin, like a map of the lies he told Jess about his scars. 

Jax doesn’t ask where they came from, just licks and sucks, so wet and hot, and Sam’s head falls forward slightly as he concentrates on the sensation. Jax takes it as invitation and moves up to Sam’s neck, biting down and sucking hard, and the shock of it, the scratch of his whiskers, jumpstarts Sam’s brain. All the reasons this is a bad idea come swirling to the surface. 

For one thing Sam’s pretty sure Dean would kick his ass for trusting Jax like this, but the thought’s somehow more of a turn-on than a deterrent. Sam’s not analyzing that right now; he just needs this. He hadn’t known just how much he’d missed somebody touching him, rough hands on his tingling, over-sensitized skin—it feels so different from Jess but it’s incredible. His eyes start to sting with relief, or gratitude, surely with release.

Maybe Jax senses some change in Sam then, the feel of him under his hands, his mouth, because he quickly ramps things up, gets rougher, biting hard into the muscle at Sam’s shoulder and sliding his hands across Sam’s ribs and around him, stroking down across his twitching stomach muscles. 

Sam hears himself make a noise, half moan and half growl, as he reaches over his shoulder with one hand and threads his fingers into Jax’s hair, pulls him forward to kiss him, hard and dirty. Jax’s mouth is wet and open and Sam takes advantage, fucks his tongue inside, slick heat and sharp edge of teeth making his breath hitch. 

Jax sucks at Sam’s tongue, pushes back with his own, licking and biting at his mouth. He’s pressed up against Sam’s back and a low moan rumbles deep in his chest, travels through Sam’s body straight to his dick and that’s it. He’s done with sitting back and waiting. 

In one sinuous movement, he ducks his shoulder and turns, shoving Jax back onto the bed and letting his full weight fall on him. Jax grunts at the impact and twists his body, trying to reassert control. Sam pins Jax’s wrists and hooks one leg around his. Sam outweighs the man under him and he’s got all the leverage, which Jax quickly recognizes and stops struggling. 

“Like that, is it?” Jax rasps and Sam’s still not completely sure he hasn’t picked himself a fight here, but he doesn’t care. Whatever the outcome, this is his choice and he’s going to see it through. 

So yeah—it is like that.

They’re both breathing hard, both so hard, Sam can feel the rigid line of Jax’s dick against his belly. Sam tightens his grip on Jax’s arms and slides his open mouth across his jaw line and down his neck, rakes his teeth against his collarbone. Jax swears and rolls his hips. 

Sam pulls back to look, panting. The wild glitter of Jax’s eyes is confusing but it’s thrilling too and a fresh wave of arousal tingles up from his balls when Jax says it.

“You wanted to run this show, hoss—what are you waitin’ for?” he asks, lip curling into a lazy, dirty grin. 

Sam hears the needy, choked sound that forces its way from his own throat, but he doesn’t care how he sounds, just dips his head and covers that cocky mouth with his own, bites and licks until Jax is panting hard, too busy biting back to think about laughing at him. It’s still more like fighting than kissing and Sam likes that just fine. 

Sam yanks Jax’s shirt up impatiently and jerks his belt open, shoves one hand down the front of his loose jeans and grips his cock, hot and hard and leaking. Jax groans and bucks his hips, pushing up into Sam’s fingers and Sam feels a dizzying surge of arousal that he made that happen. He wants more. 

He pulls his hand away, gets up and sheds his jeans, kicking out of his shoes as he does. Jax is slipping off his own jeans when Sam gets back and Sam lets him, reaches for Jax’s shirt instead and pulls it up over his head. Sam leaves it wrapped around his arms and holds him there, drops most of his weight onto Jax until he makes a noise, somewhere between a grunt and laugh.

Jax lets out another raspy chuckle and says, “Take it easy, big guy. I’m not goin’ anywhere.” 

Sam narrows his eyes and dips his head, scrapes his teeth across Jax’s left nipple, then moves to the other side, sucking and biting at it until it stands up hard and red. Jax sucks in a breath, stomach muscles bunching and straining, and Sam looks up at his face. Jax isn’t smiling anymore. 

Sam lets go of the shirt and Jax slips his hands loose. Suddenly Jax is all over Sam, hands sliding down his arms, digging blunt nails into his back, gripping his ass and pulling him tighter against him. It’s overwhelming after so many months of nothing, feeling numb, and Sam wallows in it, moaning and shuddering, the flood of sensation making his skin feel too tight to hold him. No way this is going to be anything other than quick and dirty but Sam needs—rough hands on him, bone grinding against bone, muscles tensing and shivering. He rolls his hips down hard and thrusts up, holding Jax still with his hands, thumbs sinking into the grooves of his hips, cocks sliding together, sweet catch and drag. Sam braces one hand on the bed and wraps the other around both of them and Jax curses, bucks up into Sam’s hand and Sam’s brain shuts down. He can’t care about tomorrow, can’t even think; he just feels it—rocking and rutting, the noise of their harsh panting and moans closing in around him. 

After a minute Jax reaches down between them, rubbing his thumb across the head of Sam’s cock and then his, gathering the moisture there, slicking, sliding, and oh God, it feels good, rough and hard in a way that women can never quite manage. Their bodies are slippery with sweat, curling and thrusting, stomach muscles knotting and straining. 

Supporting himself on one shaking arm, Sam watches them move together and he’s getting so close, he can feel it…fuck, gonna come so hard…but Jax makes it there first, spurting hot over Sam’s fingers and against his stomach and it’s so slick, too good, and Sam comes with a loud groan, thrusting through it, finally collapsing in a shuddering heap on top of Jax.

Sam’s still trying to catch his breath when Jax grunts underneath him. He braces one foot on the bed and puts a hand to Sam’s shoulder, rolls Sam off him with a groan. 

“Jesus Christ, like a goddamned refrigerator or somethin’.”

Sam snorts a laugh. 

“I’m serious, Winchester. You weigh a fuckin’ ton.”

“Wuss.”

“Third time today you’ve tried to flatten me, is all I’m sayin’.”

They lie there a minute longer, still coming down. Sam’s drowsy, brain running slow, but he finally regains enough consciousness to remember why he’s here in the first place.

“Jax, back at the school you recognized the ghost, didn’t you? Hardeman?”

“Yeah. Back in ’95…” Jax pauses, deciding how much to trust. “My girlfriend Tara was up at the high school then and I was scared shitless for her, for all of them. They were dying…kids…girls I knew all my life.” 

Sam makes a pillow out of his laced fingers and waits for the rest. He’s not even a little surprised when it comes.

“I killed that sorry sack of shit myself,” Jax says quietly. “Buried him out in Carson Canyon. Then about a month ago I heard about plans for a housing development out there. Had to move the bones.”

“About a month ago,” Sam repeats. “Around the time the second round of killings started.”

Jax looks pained. “Yeah. I thought it was some copycat killer starting this shit up again, but right then…it seemed like a hell of a coincidence, you know? But what else could it be? I mean, a ghost… I just didn’t think…” he stops.

“Nobody ever does,” Sam says. “But disturbing the remains like that…yeah, it was probably what set him off.”

“So it’s my fault, then. I started this.” Jax says.

“You didn’t know,” Sam answers. 

Jax shakes his head. “It’s my responsibility. I’ve gotta fix it.” 

Sam leans up on one elbow so he can look him in the eye. 

“This is good news, Jax; we just need to find the remains and salt and burn them, simple as that. You can find them again, right?”

Jax turns his head toward Sam then. “It’s not really that simple.”

Of course not, Sam thinks wearily.

“Tell me.”

 

 

Chapter 3 

_When we take action to avenge the ones we love, personal justice collides with social and divine justice. We become judge, jury and God. With that choice comes daunting responsibility. Some men cave under that weight. Others abuse the momentum. The true outlaw finds the balance between the passion in his heart and the reason in his mind. The solution is always an equal mix of might and right._ –John Thomas Teller.

Dean exits the bathroom in a cloud of steam and tosses his wet towel directly onto Sam’s sleeping face. Sam jerks and flings the towel back, missing Dean by a mile just like Dean knew he would, because he’ll never open his eyes until he’s been conscious for at least a minute. He does flop over onto his back and groan.

“You suck.”

“What’s the matter, Sammy? Stay out too late last night?”

Sam does open one eye then. “Yeah, actually. Working. Maybe you’ve heard of it.”

Dean pulls on his jeans and chuckles. “You know what they say about all work and no play…probably why you’re so boring.”

Sam sits up and stretches and Dean sees it.

“Heh, or maybe not,” he says, walking over for a closer look. He hooks a finger in the collar of Sam’s t-shirt and pulls it down an inch or so.

Sam jerks away and puts his fingers on the dark mark on his neck. Then he realizes he’s just calling more attention to it and turns red, snatches his hand back like it’s been burned.

“Well, well, look at that. You find yourself a hot biker chick? Did she have a lot of tats? ‘Cause Tandy has one right about here, and man does she like…”

“Dean!” Sam snaps, frowning and throwing the covers back hard enough that the bedspread slithers to the floor. He rubs both hands across his face, then gets up and stalks to the bathroom. 

“Jesus, you’re cranky. No more staying up late on school nights for you.”

Sam answers by shutting the bathroom door in Dean’s face.

Dean laughs out loud. He slips on his shirt and heads for the door, goes in search of the one missing piece of a perfect morning. Coffee.

By the time Dean comes back with the coffee and greasy breakfast in a bag, Sam’s showered and dressed and acting a little more like a human being. He’s got his laptop and papers spread out on the small table in the room, and he even thanks Dean when he hands him his cup. Actually, he looks more relaxed than Dean’s seen him in a while, maybe since Stanford. Last night definitely wasn’t all work. 

“So did you find anything last night? Or did the vamp that got hold of your neck keep you too busy?”

Sam glares for a second, then takes a sip of coffee, looks back at his notes.

Dean shows Sam his palms. “Hey, good for you, man. I’ve been saying you ought to let loose once in a while.” Dean pauses, remembering. “Tandy sure did, Jesus…”

“Dean, I don’t want to hear about it. Like, ever. Can we just adopt a ‘don’t ask; don’t tell’ policy and leave it at that? Maybe get some work done here?” Sam asks irritably. 

“I can’t believe we’re even related,” Dean says, sighing and rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “Okay, Columbo—what do we know from your super serious stakeout? 

“Well, first off, we were right about Jax knowing more than he was saying. I talked to him for quite a while…”

“You talked to him,” Dean frowns. “And he just spilled? Just like that?”

Sam’s face makes an odd little twitch before he starts talking. Something you’re not telling me, Sammy? 

“I think he was still in shock from the whole ghost thing,” Sam says casually. “Whatever, he straight up confessed to killing Hardeman.”

“Huh. Can’t say I’m too surprised. So he does know where the guy’s bones are.”

Sam sighs. “That’s where it gets sticky. Jax buried him back in ’95, but he dug him up again about a month ago, trying to get the bones out of the way of a groundbreaking for a housing development.” 

Sam waits for Dean to look at him. 

“Seems the Sons of Anarchy have a connection with the local undertaker, some guy with a compulsive gambling problem, goes by the name Skeeter, I think it was.”

“Wait, you lost me,” Dean says.

“Jax took Hardeman’s remains straight there from the initial burial site, had them cremated on the spot.” 

“Shit,” Dean says.

“Yeah.” 

“So something else is holding this moldy asshole here. Any idea what?”

“Not really, but Jax said that at the time of the original killings the girls just never came home from school, they’d find them dead up there the next morning, in the library. He always thought Hardeman had to have been luring them in somehow, keeping them hidden someplace until everyone else was gone, so he could…take his time,” Sam says, lip curling in disgust. “I think he’s right. It’s really the only thing that makes sense.”

“The cops never found anything like that, I guess?”

“Well, this was over ten years ago—not exactly CSI California, or whatever. And they had their crime scene laid out right there. Probably didn’t think to look much further.”

“Small town cops missed something. Shocking,” Dean says. “We gotta get into that school.”

“Yeah, tonight. Before anyone else dies.”

****

The sun is completely down and the school grounds are quiet when Dean pulls the Impala into the shelter of the same trees as before and kills the engine. The rumble of Teller’s Harley falls silent right after. 

Dean’s definitely not happy about Teller being there, but it doesn’t look like he’s got much to say about it. Sam managed to convince him that short of physically incapacitating the guy—an option Dean’s definitely keeping open—there’s no way to stop him from being there. Dean put his foot down on a few conditions, though. If they’ve got to have a third wheel, he’s going to make sure it doesn’t fall off while they’re going ninety down the expressway.

_“Just because this shotgun’s got a pistol grip doesn’t mean it fires like one,” Dean said, holding it out to Jax by the barrel. “It’s gonna kick a hell of a lot harder than a pistol, for one thing.”_

_“How wide’s the pattern?” Jax asked, boosting Dean’s opinion of him a notch. He hefted the gun, getting a feel for it._

_“Wide,” Dean said. “Don’t try to aim with any precision, just point and shoot. But watch out for me and Sam. It won’t kill anybody, but it’ll incapacitate you for a while. Plus it hurts like hell,” he added without thinking._

_Sam’s grimace came and went quickly, but Dean knew Jax caught it by the slight narrowing of his eyes as his glance flicked from Dean to Sam and back again._

_Dean cleared his throat, changed the subject._

_“So the alarms, simple wired motion detector?”_

_“Yeah,” Jax replied, smirking._

_Dean snorted. “Not that it would have made any difference in this case, but come on…”_

_“There’s not a lot of crime in Charming,” Jax said. “No secrets, either. Bunch of idiots vandalize the school, by morning the whole town knows who did it.”_

_“Voice of experience?” Sam asked wryly._

_Jax laughed. “Not that exact scenario, but close enough.”_

_“Either way, we need to be careful,” Sam said. “This isn’t 1995. Forensics has come a long way. We can’t leave any evidence we’ve been there.”_

“You ready?” Sam asks, pulling Dean’s attention back to the matter at hand. 

“Not really,” Dean says, eyeing Teller’s approach in the side mirror. 

Sam looks surprised for a second, then he picks up on Dean’s line of sight.

“Dean, he went to high school here,” Sam says, slight edge of irritation in his voice. “He knows the layout of this place better than we ever will. Got rid of the security guard and the sheriff’s detail easier, too.” 

Dean shakes his head. “He’s a target for this thing. We’re gonna have to spend time we could be using to hunt this ghost babysitting his sorry biker ass.”

“Maybe he’ll draw it in, save us some trouble,” Sam says reasonably.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, because civvies are never any trouble,” he mutters, reaching for the door handle and getting out of the car before Sam can argue. He grunts in reply to Jax’s nod of greeting and heads for the trunk to start sorting out what they’ll need. 

A minute later Dean is frowning over the opened trunk lid at Sam, who’s apparently holding a full on conversation with Jax. God knows Sam likes to give people the benefit of the doubt, but it’s a little over the top, how fast he’s taken up with this guy. Dean’s not comfortable with it at all. 

He slams the trunk a little harder than usual and distributes flashlights, salt guns and EMF detectors. 

Jax is sure they won’t find anyone and Dean figures he’s right. “It’s 10 o’clock—do you know where your children are?” has taken on a grim new significance in Charming, but they still need to be sure no innocents are in the way before they can find the ghost and figure out how to get rid of it. The three of them separate, starting at different corners of the complex of buildings and working their way inward, searching classrooms and offices by flashlight for stragglers. 

They’ve been at it for about half an hour when the whine of the EMF sends a surge of adrenaline slamming through Dean. He pulls the meter from his pocket, sees the needle buried in the red. Dean’s running full speed when a human scream splits the air. It cuts off abruptly and his stomach clenches. That son of a bitch. 

He takes a couple of wrong turns before he gets back to the main hallway that connects to the library and almost plows into Sam at the double doors. Jax is already standing inside, the stiffness of his posture telegraphing the bad news.

Jax freezes there for a few seconds and Dean steps forward to look over his shoulder. Jax breathes in audibly then and stalks to the body on the floor. It’s female, but Dean can’t tell much more than that from here. He reaches inside the doorway and flips on the overhead lights. The whitewash of the fluorescents doesn’t reveal anything new, but it makes Dean feel better about the shadows in the corners. 

Jax squats next to the splayed figure and reaches out. Dean’s shout of “No!” and Sam’s “Wait!” cancel each other out, and Sam shoves past Dean and gets there first.

“Jax! Don’t touch her!”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Jax whispers, but he draws back his shaking hand and just looks at the woman. 

“You knew her?” Sam asks quietly.

“Went to high school with her. She was a teacher here,” Jax says tightly. 

“What the hell was she doing up here this late? Why didn’t anyone report her missing?” Sam asks.

“She’s not…wasn’t…married, didn’t have anybody,” Jax says, almost too low to hear.

Dean and Sam wait quietly, giving him a minute, but Jax stands abruptly and barrels out, blowing past Dean and shoving one of the library’s double doors hard with the heel of his hand as he passes. It slams against the wall, several glass panes shattering with the impact. Jax crosses the hallway, drives his fist into the door of a locker with a metallic crash. Dean’s watching him closely, ready to move if he needs to. He’s seen homicidal fury before and it’s unpredictable, to say the least.

Sam follows Jax into the hall then and Dean lets him go. Obviously it’s a job for Emo Boy. Dean takes a deep breath and blows it out, then approaches the body and squats down to check for clues. He can hear Sam from the hallway, speaking in a soft, reasonable tone, trying to talk the guy down. 

The victim is clearly dead, but Dean checks for a pulse at her throat anyway, doesn’t get one. There are no marks either, no blood. Her dress is pushed up around her waist, which is disturbing but not really unexpected.

Dean looks over his shoulder for Sam. Sam and Jax are framed in the open library doors, facing each other. Jax has one hand on the bank of lockers, not so much leaning as he is clutching at them, white-knuckled, like he’s trying to anchor himself. That’s not especially weird, considering, but the whole scene hits Dean funny, in a what’s-wrong-with-this-picture kind of way. 

Jax’s head is down and Sam is leaned in close enough their foreheads almost touch. He’s talking, but it’s too quiet for Dean to hear what he’s saying. The proximity is odd enough, but what’s really pinging Dean’s radar is that Sam has one big hand wrapped around the back of Jax’s neck. Sam just doesn’t touch people like that, although the fact that the guy is letting him do it maybe tells Dean even more than Sam’s posture does. Suddenly he’s thinking about where Sam was last night, a whole different scenario falling into place in Dean’s mind, one he doesn’t like at all.

It’s not like Dean cares who Sam fucks, assuming he ever does, but this guy—he’s a confessed killer, mixed up in all kinds of illegal shit, no doubt, an outlaw living on the fringes of society—and fuck. Dean stops there, because even he can see that he’s just pretty well described himself. Dean’s not a fan of irony. 

Sam pulls back and drops his hand then and Jax does seem a lot calmer, so Dean decides to leave it for now and turns his back to them. 

Sam comes back into the library after another minute or two and Dean looks at him, studies his face, wondering what else he hasn’t been seeing. Hell, Sam kept his visions a secret from Dean for months, during a time when they saw each other every goddamned day. They were apart for four years before that. There might be a lot he doesn’t know about his brother. 

“What?” Sam asks, frowning slightly. 

“What’d you do with Jax?” Dean asks, looking back at the body. He thinks there’s a little hitch before Sam answers and Dean wishes he could see his face. Sam’s eyes don’t lie quite as easily as the rest of him.

“He went outside for a smoke.”

“Is that a good idea, leaving him by himself?” Dean asks, looking at Sam over his shoulder.

Sam tilts his head, raises one eyebrow. “If we were dealing with a human, then I’d say no. I think he’d be cutting the guy into little pieces right now.”

“If we were dealing with a human, I’d be helping him,” Dean mutters, turning back to the corpse. 

“Find anything?” Sam asks, looking around the scene.

“It’s more what I didn’t find. Missing underwear,” Dean says, gesturing vaguely downward.

Sam frowns. “Are you sure? Maybe she just didn’t…” Sam makes an awkward motion with his hand, similar to the one Dean just used.

“Sam, look at her. She’s thirty years old, never married, teaching at a high school. She didn’t come to work this morning bare-assed, especially not in a skirt.” 

Sam raises his eyebrows, a little disbelieving. Then he shakes his head. 

“All right. Guess I have to take your word for it. You’ve done enough research,” Sam says smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.

“Damn straight,” Dean says, responding to the line like he knows it’s intended, as a release of tension.

Sam looks idly around the room, expression thoughtful. “So you think the bastard was keeping souvenirs, then?”

“That’s exactly what I think. Got ‘em stashed away somewhere nearby.”

“That’s more of a connection to the victims than the killer, though. Unless…” Sam’s mouth twists in disgust.

“Unless there was some of him on them,” Dean says, nodding.

“Jesus, that’s nasty,” Sam replies, swallowing hard. 

“Yeah. We’ve gotta see if we can find Hardeman’s perverted little stash and we’ve got about…” Dean checks his watch. “…three hours to do it before we have to clear out until tomorrow night.”

“Jax’s secret compartment theory makes a lot of sense to me. Might as well start looking for that,” Sam says.

“Yeah, you go ahead. I’m gonna go get some more batteries for this EMF; these are getting pretty weak.”

Sam grunts in response, already walking the perimeter and scanning with his own meter.

Dean puts his perfectly functional EMF meter back in his pocket as soon as he’s outside. He’s going to have himself a private word with Jackson Teller. 

Teller is leaning forward, both hands braced on the rock wall, looking out across the lights of the town, still as stone. It takes the wind out of Dean’s sails just a little, the reminder that there’s a body cooling on the floor of the library. God knows Dean hates to lose anybody to something he’s hunting, and he hardly ever knows any of them personally. 

He walks up even with Jax, but gives him some space and looks at the ground instead of at him. 

“Sorry about your friend,” Dean says after a few seconds.

“She wasn’t my friend,” Jax mutters. 

“Okay, um…” Dean hasn’t got a clue what he’s supposed to say now, or what Jax is even talking about.

“I barely knew her,” Jax says then. “But I got her killed anyway.”

Oh. Dean’s fast getting out of his depth here, but he gives it another shot. 

“I know how you feel, but beating yourself up isn’t gonna change a damned thing.” Dean pauses. I ought to know, he thinks, then waits out another minute or two of Jax’s silence before he loses patience. 

“Look man, I get it; it sucks. But we’ve only got a few hours to make sure this doesn’t happen again, so…”

“How?” Jax demands, quietly furious. “I started this and I don’t have the first fucking idea of how to go about stopping it!”

Dean’s not unsympathetic, but they’ve got a job to do and he didn’t come out here for this. 

“Hey, if you want to talk personal responsibility and all that happy horseshit, then you want my brother, not me.” He pauses. “And while we’re at it…just what did you do to him anyway?”

Jax face changes, brief confusion replaced by a slightly wary look that instantly confirms everything Dean’s been thinking. 

“Why don’t you ask him?” Jax asks, holding Dean’s gaze. 

“I’m asking you,” Dean says.

“Are you saying I forced him into something? Because…”

Dean’s snort is derisive, matching the incredulous look on Jax’s face. Then Jax narrows his eyes, looks at Dean thoughtfully for a long second. 

“Your brother’s a big boy. You might wanna try treating him like one.”

Anger boils up in Dean’s gut like acid and he clenches his teeth against it.

“Just leave him alone,” he grinds out.

“Why?” Jax says, odd look on his face like he’s half confused, half pissed off. 

Dean’s not particularly in the mood to explain himself. And maybe it wasn’t the best idea to bring this up right now, with both of them jacked up on adrenaline, dead body inside and with a pressing need to prevent more of the same, but he’s stirred the shit already. There’s no backing down. Probably only one way to end this anyway. 

“Because Sam’s been through a lot, and the last thing he needs is biker trash like you fucking with his head.” Dean throws it at Jax like a grenade and shifts his weight onto the balls of his feet, defensive stance he knows he’s about to need. 

Jax straightens and turns toward Dean. He looks at Dean for a beat or two, eyes reptile-cold. His lips curl into an ugly, fucked-up parody of a smile. It’s all the warning Dean gets. 

Jax steps forward and brings his elbow up hard. Dean jerks his head to the side quick enough to let the blow glance off, but there’s enough contact to make Dean stagger backward. Jax lunges at his chest, wraps up on him like a linebacker and tackles him to the ground. Dean’s head hits the grass and bounces hard enough he sees stars. He’s blinking hard trying to clear his vision, but he takes note of Jax’s right fist drawn back on a vector with his face. Dean shoves hard with his hip and right leg, throwing Jax off balance. Jax rolls off Dean and over a couple of times, but he’s up and in a crouch by the time Dean gets his feet under him.

Dean closes the gap and fakes with his left, lands an uppercut with his right that snaps Jax’s head back. Dean grins with the rush of adrenaline, smack of fist against flesh, bone slamming into bone, and he relaxes into the fight, body moving on long muscle memory. He doesn’t even try to think about his moves, just lets it flow by instinct, punch and dodge, kick and duck.

Dean doesn’t know how long they go at it, but it’s at least one split lip, a couple of sore ribs and a throbbing right knee later when his brain reluctantly starts working again.

“You getting up?” Dean asks, between gasps. “’Cause we can go another round…”

“Pass,” Jax pants, pushing back from all fours and flopping back onto the grass.

“Thank fuck,” Dean breathes. He’s bent over with his hands on his knees and ass backed up against the trunk of an elm. Technically, he’s still standing.

Jax looks at him from under his brow, still sucking air. “Y’ know, I’ve had guys get pissed at me for hittin’ on their sisters, but this is one fight I never thought I’d be having.”

“You and me both,” Dean mutters, levering his body off the tree trunk and reaching a hand down to Jax.

“Look man, your brother…” Jax starts, taking Dean’s offered hand.

Dean helps him up and waves off whatever Jax is getting ready to say, starting for the building.

“Knowing Sam, he’ll probably need a few minutes to get done being disgusted with both of us. Might as well get it over with so we can get some work done,” Dean says over his shoulder. Jax’s chuckle follows him to the door of the library.

But it’s way too quiet. When his EMF squeals just as he gets inside the door, Dean’s hackles are already up.

“Sam?” Dean calls, but he’s not really expecting an answer. He’s looking down the stacks one after another while he fumbles with his phone, muttering No,no,no,no under his breath as he punches the button next to Sam’s name. Four rings and the voicemail picks up. Dean grinds his thumb against the button and breaks the connection. 

“Sam!”

****

Sam wonders if he’s dead. This could be Hell. He’s definitely in pain, muscles cramping and feeling bruised. 

He puts his arms out, feeling in the dark for something, anything. His hands touch cold metal on all sides. He’s inside something, trapped. He knows that’s bad, but his head feels heavy and fuzzy, insulated from reality like a morphine buzz or something. It’s getting worse by the second and he should probably do something about that, but he’s got no clue what. 

If he has been drugged it’s not working very well, because his head aches. He’s not sure why; he doesn’t remember hitting it on anything. He’s not sure of much, actually, except that it’s dark, as in completely black, the polar opposite of light. 

Sam’s thoughts move slow, oozing across his brain like syrup, dream-like, but he’s breathing fast, panting like an overheated dog and he knows that’s bad, too. The smell of the space is sickening—rancid odors of old sweat and piss and fear, but it’s bad for another reason, too, he just can’t wrap his muzzy brain around it. If he could just think for a minute, it’d come to him…he knows this…but it’s so hard to remember anything. Maybe Dean knows…

He stops thinking. 

****

“He’s got Sam,” Dean says, running a hand across his mouth, trying to think.

“The ghost? Why?” Jax asks.

“I don’t _care_ why! We need to know where!” Dean snaps. He looks over the long, narrow room, rows of shelves and tables between, like every library he’s ever seen. 

“Where are you hiding him, you son of a bitch?” Dean mutters. He looks at Jax.

“You told Sam you thought Hardeman was keeping the victims somewhere—we need to find it. You know this building, right? Where do we start looking?”

Jax looks at the floor a minute, thinking. “There were service tunnels under the building. We used to sneak down there to smoke and shit…” He pauses, rubbing at his chin. 

“Come on, man, you gotta give me something here!” Dean growls.

“I’ve been out of high school for over ten years…they’ve remodeled since then,” Jax says, frowning.

“Hardeman asphyxiated his victims, Teller! We don’t have time for a stroll down memory fucking lane!”

“Dean! Shut up and let me think!” Jax barks, glaring at Dean. It’s a clear order, in tone and volume, and Dean doesn’t hesitate, just snaps his mouth closed so fast his teeth click. He’ll worry about what that means later. If he needs to kick Jax’s ass again, it can wait until after they get Sam back. 

“There were stairs, an old boiler room,” Jax mutters, walking quickly toward the back of the library, behind the stacks. He stops at the doorway of a small office, glass window in the front, all the better for keeping an eye on unruly teenagers, maybe. “This wasn’t here, though.”

Dean pushes past him and tries the door, fingerprints be damned. It’s unlocked, so maybe Sam came this way, could have picked it. Jax walks past Dean to the corner of the room and reaches down, flipping back the corner of the big rug covering most of the floor. 

“Here…” Jax starts, but Dean’s already seen it. Two long strides and Dean’s yanking the trapdoor open and headed down the stairs, flicking his Maglite on. There’s a light switch at the bottom and Dean flips all four of the toggles up. _Let there be light_. 

There is light, but it’s nothing to write home about so he leaves the flashlight on, starts scanning the underground room. It’s a maze of pipes, cabinets, closets and God knows what else. Dean can see a dozen places Sam could be just from where he’s standing. 

“Fuck,” Dean swears. They left the weapons upstairs and he hates to take the time, but they’re not gonna do Sam any good if they get themselves killed.

“Jax—go back up and get the salt guns,” Dean says. “I’ll start looking.”

Jax looks at him like he’s going to argue and Dean frowns. 

“Hurry up. That bastard Hardeman is probably still around and bein’ down here without a gun is making me itch. Go!” he growls, putting his own drill sergeant voice to use. It turns Jax and sends him up the stairs at a run. 

Dean starts pulling open doors and shoving shelves aside, working his way toward the back of the main room, calling “Sam!” every few seconds. It’s surprisingly clean down here but it’s big, tunnels branching off from the open area where he’s standing. _Damn it_ —there are too many possibilities—Dean’s going to lose his _mind_.

He’s breathing hard, cursing under his breath as he works his way around the room and he almost misses it. It’s a coffee can, old from the looks of it, and lying on its side. The lid is there too, a few feet away. Dean plays the flashlight beam across the can’s opening, spots the scraps of fabric lying inside, and some weird mix of relief and panic starts clawing its way up his spine.

“Sam!” Dean yells again, looking for the hiding spot. Sam obviously dropped Hardeman’s little bucket of party favors here; he’s gotta be close by.

Jax comes flying down the steps, skipping the last few and hopping straight to the floor. He jogs over and looks at the mess on the floor, squats down to get a closer look.

“What the fuck…” Jax starts, but Dean’s not seeing him anymore, his eyes glued to what’s tucked back into the corner beyond the gruesome collection. 

It’s a large metal box of some sort, roughly rectangular, and Dean’s no expert on archaic machinery, but he thinks it’s an old boiler. There’s a wheel on the front, turned to activate an interlocking seal mechanism on the door and Dean’s pretty damned sure the thing is soundproof. And airtight.

“Sam!” he hisses through gritted teeth, dropping the flashlight and hauling on the wheel until it spins. He yanks the door open and reaches inside, feeling around blindly as he ducks into the thing’s open mouth. The smell hits him first, ripe and distinctly human, and then he feels it, warm body slumped on the floor of the chamber. 

Jax is saying something outside, something about the lights, but Dean’s got no time or attention for anything outside of the reach of his arms. He gropes and grasps, trying to get a hold on Sam, something he can drag him out of there by. His eyes start adjusting then and he can see enough to figure out that Sam’s curled up in a ball, face down. Dean hooks his forearms under Sam’s shoulders and hauls at him, but he’s a dead…he’s fucking heavy, and he’s limp, and there’s not much room to move around in here. Dean grunts and drags and pulls, trying not to let Sam’s head flop around and bang against anything, but Jesus, he’s so still and there’s just no time. 

He finally gets Sam’s upper body hauled over the edge of the opening and Dean leans backward, pulling at Sam until his legs slide out onto the floor. Dean stumbles back a few steps before he loses the fight with gravity, hits the concrete floor with a meaty smack. Sam lands on top of Dean, all two hundred-plus pounds of him, his hipbone jamming itself into Dean’s solar plexus and driving the air out of his lungs.

Dean’s lying on the floor gasping for air and wondering where the fuck Jax is when he hears the shotgun blast. Jax is backed up against the opposite wall with Dean’s pistol grip in his hand, face drawn tight as grim death. Jax glances their way, then quickly turns his attention back to one of the tunnel branches. He looks for a moment, but evidently the coast is clear, because he starts backing toward Dean and Sam then, shotgun held ready. 

Dean takes it all in with a glance, then rolls Sam off of him, grunting with the effort. Sam’s too still and Dean can tell his color is way off, not just because of the shitty light. He leans over Sam, puts his cheek next to his face and he’s not breathing— _shit_ —of course he’s not. Dean shakes him hard.

“Come on, Sammy, no, no, no…don’t do this, man…” he’s babbling, and fuck, Dean knows CPR—what’s he supposed to do? 

Breathe. That’s it. He has to breathe for both of them. Dean adjusts Sam’s neck to open up the airway and listens again. Still nothing. He hears Jax’s grunt before the shotgun fires again and then again, but they might as well be on another planet, Dean’s so beyond caring. 

Dean leans down, pinches Sam’s nostrils shut and seals his mouth over Sam’s. He blows hard once, then twice, watching the rise and fall of Sam’s chest out of the corner of his eye. He pulls back, lays his fingers against Sam’s carotid looking for a pulse. Dean closes his eyes briefly when there is one, but knows there won’t be for long if he doesn’t get Sam breathing soon. _Come on, Sammy, stay with me_. 

Panic starts to creep in then, and Dean takes hold of Sam’s shoulders and shakes him hard. Sam’s slack face, the way his head flops around—Dean can’t stand to see it. He starts breathing for Sam again, keeps going, two breaths and then checking, over and over, Dean doesn’t know for how long because time has stopped, nothing else matters and it’s okay, because Dean’s a machine, he’ll keep going for as long as it takes and _oh, goddamn it, Sam, just fucking breathe already._

Dean loses himself in it, refusing to think, just checking for breath and heartbeat, while whole lifetimes pass. Finally, finally, Sam twitches under him and gasps, breathing on his own, and Dean sits back on his heels, squeezes his eyes shut with relief. 

It’s only then that he realizes Jax has been talking to him, trying to get his attention for a while, finally clamping his hand down hard on Dean’s shoulder and shaking him.

“Dean! We’re almost out of fucking ammo, you need to focus, tell me what to do, come on, man…” 

Jax’s babbling finally gets through and Dean opens his eyes, sees Hardeman advancing on them one more time. He gives Sam another quick check. His head rolls to the side and back before his eyes open a little. He’s alive. Dean’s more unhinged by that thought than anything else, but he shoves the feeling down. Got to take charge, end this right now. 

He grabs the shotgun in Jax’s hand. Jax looks at him sharply, but he doesn’t let go of the gun. Dean’s got room for a sneaking spark of admiration for the guy before he looks him in the eye and starts barking orders. 

“Give me that shotgun, get your lighter and go burn everything in that coffee can…Go! Go!” Dean urges, taking the shotgun and training it on the spirit. He waits for it to close on them. 

“Come on, Jax!”

“I’m trying!”

“Well, try harder!”

Dean fires, reloads and fires again. He’s got the last shell in his hand, ready to go and light the damned thing himself, when the fabric finally catches and the spirit flames out. 

Dean collapses, ass hitting the concrete with a jar that travels all the way up his spine and into his neck. He looks at Sam, who picks that moment to raise his head and shoulders off the floor, coughing and looking confused. 

Dean closes his eyes and just breathes. 

**

When Dean walks out the door of their room the next morning, Jax is sitting on the curb, his bike parked a few spaces down from the Impala. When he sees Dean, he stands up and drops his cigarette, crushing it out under his sneaker. He walks over, stopping across the car’s hood from Dean. Jax looks at the Impala like he would any beautiful girl, exactly like she deserves, and Dean can’t help the smile that spreads over his face. 

“Headin’ out today?” Jax asks.

“Yeah,” Dean snorts. “No offense, but I’d kind of like to get my brother out of here. California doesn’t really agree with him.”

Jax grimaces, shakes his head once. “Close call. That happen a lot?” 

Dean’s ragged half-laugh catches in this throat.

“Often enough,” Dean mutters grimly. Which is why I know better than to leave him alone like that.

Jax looks at him too hard, too long, and Dean thinks the guy sees a lot more than he says, a lot more than Dean’s saying, too. 

“He all right?” Jax asks.

It’s a simple question, but there’s more than one way to look at it. Sam doesn’t know about their little dust-up, and he’s not going to hear about it from Dean. But the two of them are on their way out of here now and won’t be back for a while if Dean has anything to say about it, so maybe it is a simple question after all.

Dean meets his eye for a few seconds. “He’s gonna be fine.”

“That’s what matters.”

Dean nods and Jax waits, like he knows Dean’s got something to say.

“Listen, about Sam…”

A small smile turns up one corner of Jax’s mouth. It looks kind of sad. 

“Don’t sweat it, man. I get it. It’s what big brothers do.” 

Jax looks away. There’s something there that Dean’s not getting, but he doubts it would do any good to ask so he doesn’t. 

The motel is up on a little rise and they can see a lot of the town from here. Jax looks out over it for a minute, then shakes his head. 

“When I think about what that bastard did to this town, I…” Jax stops, jaw clenching, breathing out hard through his nose.

Dean raises his eyebrows and shrugs. “Look at it this way…you got to kill him twice. How many people can say that?”

“Yeah,” Jax says grimly. “You’d think it’d feel better.”

Dean’s been here before and will be again and there’s not much he can say that will help. The silence hangs for a moment, until Sam walks out of the room with his bag, pinched look on his face that crunches tighter against the morning sun. He sees Jax and smiles tiredly, squinting.

“Hey,” Jax says. “You gonna live?”

“Afraid so,” Sam says, wincing. “Got one hell of a headache, though.” 

“Yeah, asphyxiation will do that, I hear.” Jax smiles. “For a good cause, though. That’s why I came down…wanted to say thanks.” 

He offers his right hand to Sam, who takes it. Jax pulls Sam into his chest and wraps his free arm around Sam’s shoulder, holds him there. Sam thumps Jax on the back a couple of times before he lets him go. 

The hugging is a little much, Dean thinks, although it is kind of nice to get a thank you for a change. But he wasn’t kidding when he said he was ready to get far away from the state of California and its hard-on for violently ass-fucking the Winchesters. Dean opens his car door and gets in, trying to hurry things along, but Sam’s still a big girl and apparently bikers are prone to that tendency, too, so there’s more talking and backslapping before Sam finally takes the hint and gets in, too. 

They stop for drinks and gas at a convenience store. Dean’s not in such a hurry that he won’t flirt with pretty little Louise behind the counter, but he still lets out a noisy breath of relief when they pass the Charming city limits sign. 

“Man, I’m glad that one’s over.” Dean raises his bottle and says, “Here’s to Hardeman staying dead.” 

Sam doesn’t answer and Dean’s not particularly surprised. He spends a fair amount of road time talking to himself even when Sam doesn’t have the mother of all headaches. 

“So Jax must have been about eighteen when he killed that fucker the first time, right? Pretty cold blooded for a kid that age,” Dean comments idly. He’s not really expecting a reply, but Sam answers quickly, like he’s thought about it quite a bit. 

“Not cold blooded at all. He just wanted his dad to be proud of him.”

Dean looks at him, tensing a little as he wonders which of his brother’s many issues has come into play, and for how many hundreds of miles he’s about to be stuck in the car dealing with said issue. But Sam’s not looking back at Dean, just stares out the window a minute before he pulls out his phone and hits a couple of buttons, listens.

“Who’re you calling?” Dean asks.

“Nobody. Just checking my voicemail,” Sam says. Dean’s a little confused as to who would be leaving Sam a message, but then he shrugs it off. Maybe Sam’s still hanging on to a college buddy or two.

Sam listens for a minute and hangs up. He settles back into his seat and drifts off to sleep, painkillers finally kicking in, his phone forgotten on the seat beside him. 

Dean normally tries to give Sam what little privacy they can afford in the close quarters they keep, but something about this is bugging him. He finally says fuck it and picks up Sam’s phone. He thumbs the “last dialed” button and puts it to his ear, listens to it ring and then click, connection made.

_“This is John Winchester. I can’t be reached. If this is an emergency, call my son, Dean…”_


End file.
